AH! were she pitiful as she is fair, Or but as mild as she is seeming so, Then were my hopes greater than my despair, Then all the world were heaven, nothing woe. Ah! were her heart relenting as her hand That seems to melt even with the mildest touch, Then knew I where to seat me in a land Under wide heavens, but yet there is not such. So as she shows she seems the budding rose, Yet sweeter far than is an earthly flower; Sovran of beauty, like the spray she grows; Compass'd she is with thorns and canker'd flower. Yet were she willing to be pluck'd and worn, She would be gather'd, though she grew on thorn. Ah! when she sings, all music else be still, For none must be compared to her note; Ne'er breathed such glee from Philomela's bill, Nor from the morning-singer's swelling throat. Ah! when she riseth from her blissful bed She comforts all the world as doth the sun, And at her sight the night's foul vapour's fled; When she is set the gladsome day is done. O glorious sun, imagine me the west, Shine in my arms, and set thou in my breast! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MACFLECKNOE; OR, A SATIRE UPON THE TRUE-BLUE-PROTESTANT POET by JOHN DRYDEN MY LOVE by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE GROVES OF BLARNEY by RICHARD ALFRED MILLIKIN THOUGHTS WHILE PACKING A TRUNK by CHRISTOPHER DARLINGTON MORLEY LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 9. GOING TO THE FAIR by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM EMBLEMS OF LOVE: 38. NO PERJURY IN LOVE by PHILIP AYRES FRAGMENTS OF A POEM ON THE EXCELLENCE OF CHRISTIANITY by JAMES HAY BEATTIE THE LOVE SONNETS OF PROTEUS: 53. FAREWELL TO JULIET (15) by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT |